


After the Journey

by DarkMoonMaiden



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe-Everyone Lives, BAMF!Bilbo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, young!Frodo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:15:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkMoonMaiden/pseuds/DarkMoonMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Erebor was retaken by the dwarves, Bilbo was exiled and left to travel alone to the Shire. Years later, when he's settled down into some sense of normalcy, the dwarves realize their mistake at dismissing their thief and set out to make things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Returning Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Before you begin reading this, I would like to say that Bilbo is a bit out of character in this story, because I thought it would be interesting, and that it would help keep the plot moving.  
> Secondly, I am horribly sick right now and so this may be absolutely terrible. :D I've edited it at best as I can, and I'll probably go back in the future and fix it up.

Bilbo tightened his cloak around his shoulders, urging his pony to continue down the steep path.

“Come on, old girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck. “We’re almost there. Then we can both get some food and rest.” She let out a soft nicker, chucking her head to the side.

The forest was misty, the cloudy sky a deep blue as the sun started to near the horizon. A few early morning birds twittered in the trees, and animals rustled around in the undergrowth, searching for food. No one else was on the path, leaving Bilbo to his solitude.

Bilbo carefully rubbed the wound on his shoulder, trying to soothe the pain that was radiating from it. The recent damp weather hadn’t been kind to his wounds, even with the solutions Lord Elrond and his healers had kindly given him. Elvish medicine could only go so far when it came to a stab wound going straight through his shoulder, he supposed.

Bilbo had been on the road for a few days since he’d stopped in Rivendell, and was finally nearing the Shire’s borders. He’d stayed with the elves for a week, healing from the Orc ambush that had left him half dead with numerous infected stab wounds.

The elven healers had tended to him until he had decided he was healed enough to get back on the road. Bilbo had ignored Lord Elrond’s urgings to stay longer and declining any offers to have a guard escort him to the Shire. He knew that their forces were already stretched thin as it was, trying to protect their borders and nearby villages from the Orc raids, like the one Bilbo had been subjected to.

Lord Elrond had given him a sad frown, obviously seeing through Bilbo’s flimsy lie about wanting to get home as soon as possible. He didn’t call him out on it, much to Bilbo’s relief. And so, Bilbo had left Rivendell with a full pack of supplies and a new pony, feeling more rested than he had been in ages.

Now, the risen sun had dissipated the mist and most of the clouds from the sky. The stony path had curved into a softer dirt one as Bilbo passed through the forest, seeing golden fields between the trees. Hobbits were already working diligently in them, harvesting the crops. A few others in caravans passed Bilbo on the road, but he kept his hood up so they didn’t recognize him—he was hoping to at least be able to reach Bag End before he was bombarded by nosy busybodies who wanted to know where he’d been.

People eyed Bilbo warily as he rode his pony through Hobbiton, a few realizing who it was after a few moments. No one approached him (which was perfectly fine with him), opting to whisper and gossip amongst each other as he went passed them.

There it was. Bag End. If Bilbo were still the same as he had been when he first left with Thorin Oakenshield and his Company, he would have probably been choked up with tears and joy at the sight of his home. But now, he could barely feel any happiness at the sight of the home he thought he’d never see again.

Jumping off of his pony, Bilbo frowned as he took in the sight of Bag End. It was looking a little…rough. The garden looked like it hadn’t been tended to since he’d left, the flowers hiding under tall weeds and vines crawling over the gates. Had the Gaffer not been tending to it while he was away? Odd. Hamfast had always been obsessed with keeping Bilbo’s garden in pristine condition.

He tied up his pony on the fence, petting her side comfortingly as he opened the fence and entered his home.

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin at the shriek that greeted him when he opened the green door. He peered into his kitchen, seeing a stunned and spluttering Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins, both of them wearing robes and eating breakfast.

His eyes narrowed. Ignoring their indignant shouts and orders for him to leave, he stormed over to them and yanked them out of their seats by the backs of their robes. He dragged them bodily to the front door, refusing to acknowledge the throbbing pain it caused his shoulder, and threw them out onto the road.

Bilbo turned on his heel and marched back into the house, going into his bedroom and gathering together various items they had left around it. When he was sure that he had everything, he went back to the entrance, where Lobelia and Otho were standing up brushing the dirt off of themselves.

He threw their things at them, and then slammed the door shut, locking it as his relatives pounded at it and roared for Bilbo to let them back in that instant, that Bag End was their house now and Bilbo had no claim on it.

Bilbo calmly sat at the breakfast table, waiting for them to get off his property so he could properly tend to his pony and get her to the stables. He absently rested his chin in his hand, picking up a fruit scone and nibbling on it.

After a few minutes, the banging at the door stopped, and Bilbo looked out the window to see Lobelia and Otho walking down the road with their possessions wrapped up in their arms, neighbors staring at them as if they were crazy.

When Bilbo deemed that they were far enough away that he didn’t have to worry about them, he put down the scone and grabbed a handful of oats. He went back to his pony, who was waiting patiently for him with big, brown eyes.

“Let’s get that off of you, old girl,” Bilbo whispered to her as he fed her the oats. He pulled off the small bag that was strapped to her side and he large chest, carefully unsaddling her afterwards.

Bilbo went back inside to set the bag and saddle in their proper places, scowling at how unorganized Lobelia and her no-good cousin had left his house. “The nerve of those idiots…”

“Master Baggins? Sir, is that ye?”

Bilbo heard Hamfast’s voice, muffled through the walls of Bag End calling for him. He hurriedly set his things down and went to greet him.

Hamfast was standing next to the pony, his hat clutched in his hand. As soon as he saw Bilbo, he burst into sobs.

“Oh, it _is_ you!” he wailed, pulling an uncertain Bilbo into a tight hug. “I w-w-was afraid y-yeh had d-died!”

“It’s alright, Hamfast,” Bilbo said awkwardly, patting him on the back. “I’m, uh, fine, see? I’m home now, all same and…” He was about to add ‘mostly unharmed,’ but left it off with a grimace. There was no need to worry the poor gardener.

“Sir, look at yuh face!” Hamfast blubbered, reaching out to touch the jagged cut that went across his cheek. Bilbo winced and moved his head away before his friend’s hand could reach him. “Wh-wha’ happened?”

“Nothing of importance,” Bilbo managed to smile. “Would you like to come in for breakfast? I just need to take her down to the stables at the inn,” he motioned to the pony.

“No, no, I’ll do that for ye, sir,” Hamfast rushed to say, tugging out a large handkerchief and mopping away the tears. “It’s the least I can do after I let them wretched Sackville-Bagginses get into yer house. You just go an’ get some relax, sir, I’ll be back in a few.”

Hamfast stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket before taking the pony’s reigns and leading her down the path towards the inn.

Bilbo went back into his house, pulling out two clean plates and beakers of juice. He put Lobelia and Otho’s dishes in the sink, distastefully eying the dishes that they had left there. He should probably do those soon, before they started molding and stinking up the kitchen, but doing his cousins’ dishes was the last thing he wanted to do on his first day back home.

Hamfast returned, and the two of them shared second breakfast, since the first had ended a good while earlier. Bilbo was vague on the details of his trip for the sake of his friend’s sanity, and focused mostly on filling his stomach and listening to the newest happenings of the Shire. Hamfast kept looking Bilbo up and down the whole time, confusion evident in his eyes at the sight of the dark armor that his old friend wore, but also relief that he was back, safe and sound.

He was shocked when he heard that Primula and Drogo Baggins had died only a few months earlier, leaving their three-year-old son, Frodo, in the care Lobelia and her husband. Bilbo was supposed to be the one he went to, but since he was off helping the dwarves, he had gone to live with that no-good couple whose soul purpose of taking in the orphan was to take his inheritance.

“Where is Frodo?” Bilbo demanded. “I’ll deal with this right now.”

Hamfast looked at Bilbo in pure relief. “Oh, thank you, sir. He’s off in town, running some errands for those ruddy arseholes, pardon my language, sir. He should be back any minute.”

Bilbo nodded tightly. “Are there any papers I need to sign to take him in?”

“Yessir, you’ll have to go down to Brandy Hall to sign ‘em, but there shouldn’t be much of a fuss. No one in their right mind would let poor Frodo stay with those two any longer than ‘e has.”

Bilbo sighed, removing the sword from his belt and standing up from the table. “I’ll just run over there now before I get too relaxed,” he decided. “Will you stay here for when Frodo comes back?”

“’Course, sir!”

Bilbo strode purposefully down the road toward Brandy Hall, refusing to meet anyone’s gazes along the way. He just wanted to get there as soon as possible, so he could finish breakfast with Hamfast and hopefully Frodo and then figure out how much damage his cousins managed to do in the time he was gone.

The ordeal with gaining guardianship was much easier than Bilbo had thought it would be. As soon he had entered the main hall, all conversation had stopped. Everyone gaped at him as he went straight for the head of the house, smoothly asking—well, it was asking in his opinion; to most people it would probably sound like demanding—for the custody of Frodo Baggins.

“Are—are Lobelia and Otho aware that you—want to do this?” the document keeper, a meek hobbit, stuttered out.

“I’m sure they have an idea,” Bilbo responded calmly. “Besides, I’m the one who was named his guardian in Primula’s will, wasn’t I? So it doesn’t really matter what those two buffoons know about yet. I can provide a much better home for Frodo than they can, and I have all the legal rights that they don’t to take him in.”

The hobbit agreed with him hastily, rifling through the documents around him before pulling out a form. He explained that it would give the guardianship over to him, and that all he needed to do was sign it.

Bilbo signed his name with a flourish before handing the paper back to him.

“Welcome home, Mister Baggins,” the hobbit gave him a nervous smile. “And congratulations to your new son.”

There was a chorus of well wishes and greetings from the others, and Bilbo gave them all polite smiles, slipping out of Brandy Hall and hurrying home, hoping to get there before Frodo reached it. His gut twisted at the thought of how just a few months of living with those Sackville-Bagginses could have ruined that poor boy.

The trek back to Bag End was uneventfully, but it seemed as if people were now friendlier towards him, yelling out greetings and waving at him. He returned them with forced politeness, feeling uneasy under the attention. When people tried to get him to stop or come in for afternoon tea, but he declined them all, saying he just needed a few days to relax and spend time with Frodo.

Hesitating at the front door, Bilbo rested his hand on the doorknob. Inside, he could dimly hear the cooing, lighthearted voice the Gaffer reserved for his children. He easily deduced that Frodo must already be there, even if he couldn’t hear the small boy’s replies.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo twisted the doorknob open and entered Bag End.

The Gaffer was sitting next to a tiny hobbitling, his hand looking ridiculously large on Frodo’s shoulder. Frodo himself was small and frail, with delicate white skin and downcast, blue eyes. His unruly curls looked as if they hadn’t been washed in awhile, and his clothes looked a good three sizes too big. He was clutching a mug of tea, staying silent as the Gaffer chatted to him.

Gaffer stopped talking and they both turned their gazes on Bilbo, who froze in the entryway. They stared at each other, Bilbo having to fight back the instinct to go run and beat up Lobelia at the sight of Frodo’s emotionless expression. It was so…so different from the happy, carefree little boy Bilbo had known before he left. The hobbitling observing him now was an altogether new person.

“Er, hello there,” Bilbo said, closing the door and hanging his cloak.

“Master Baggins, this is Frodo,” Hamfast said, his hand still resting on his shoulder. “D’ye remember yer Uncle Bilbo, young’un?” Frodo lowered his gaze and shook his head negative.

Bilbo snorted, sitting across the table from them. “Of course he doesn’t,” he said in what he hoped was a teasing tone. “The last time he saw me was when he was just a babe.” He took the mug of tea Hamfast offered him.

“I was just telling little Frodo here that you came back from an adventure with dwarves,” Hamfast said with more enthusiasm than necessary, attempting to coax Frodo out of his silence. “I’m sure Master Baggins’d tell yeh all about it if yeh asked him.”

Bilbo winced at the mentions of the dwarves, his memories drifting to the look of betrayal and hatred on Thorin’s face when he exiled the hobbit out of his kingdom, the others of the company staying in the shadows and grimly watching the banishment. The betrayal still weighed heavy on his heart, with only Gandalf ignoring the royal command to stay away from the hobbit as he escorted him with the elves to Thranduil’s woods, where he healed from the Battle of the Five Armies.

“Maybe later,” Bilbo smiled thinly at them. “We have the matters of your new guardianship to discuss right now.”

For the first time since seeing him, a spark of interest flickered behind Frodo’s eyes. Taking it as a good sign, Bilbo continued talking.

“Your…” Bilbo stopped before he mentioned Drogo and Primula. That would no doubt be a sore spot with the hobbitling still. “Did you know that I was the one who was supposed to be your guardian? To look after you?”

Frodo shook his head minutely.

“Well, I was. But I had to go help some acquaintances get their home back, because some mean people had taken it from them.”

“Orcs?” Frodo whispered, surprising both Hamfast and Bilbo.

“A dragon,” Bilbo corrected, grasping for words that wouldn’t set the child off or at least that he could understand. _I’m terrible with children…_ “Dragons are, are attracted to gold, and the home of these dwarves most certainly had a lot of gold. So the dragon took it from them, and I had to…help them get it back.” Frodo didn’t answer, going back to being silent.

“That’s why you went to-to stay with those orc-humping—Lobelia!” he yelled before the insult finished coming out of his mouth, Hamfast guffawing and slapping the table. “Lobelia and Otho,” Bilbo lowered his voice back to the soothing tone. “I’m back now, though, so their…help is no longer needed. Is that okay with you? To leave them, and come stay with me?”

The humor had passed, and now Bilbo and Hamfast waited anxiously for the hobbitling to answer, watching Frodo as he tightened his grip on his mug of tea. With hesitance, the little boy nodded his consent, averting his gaze from Bilbo’s nervously.

Bilbo managed a small smile, reaching out to lightly ruffle Frodo’s curly hair. “Are your things still here, from when those two were squatting on my property?” Frodo gave another tiny nod, lips twitching in amusement at Bilbo insulting Lobelia and Otho.

“Good,” Bilbo breathed. “Good, good that’s…brilliant.”

“Ah, I hate to have ta run off,” Hamfast said fretfully, peering outside. “But I better go an’ get to work. I’m gonna try ta get Miss Took’s garden in order right fast so I can fix yours up, sir. The Sackville-Bagginses wouldn’t let me anywhere near it while you was gone, sir, and it’s quite a mess.” He scowled at one of the vines crawling up the outside of the window. “I’ll be back ‘round at tha end of the day ter start, an’ then tomorrow I’ll come by in the morn to finish it.”

“It’s quite fine, Hamfast,” Bilbo said softly. “Whenever you can come by is alright.”

“Tonight and tomorrow it is, then,” the Gaffer confirmed, donning his hat. “You be nice to Master Baggins, yeah?” he directed at Frodo, patting him on the back. “Don’t give ‘em too much trouble.” Frodo nodded, taking a small sip from of his tea.

The Gaffer excused himself, walking with a bounce in his step. Frodo and Bilbo stayed at the table, Bilbo watching Frodo as the hobbitling took some careful nibbles of a cake before putting it back on the plate.

“Not hungry?” he asked in disbelief. He’d never seen a child who turned down sweets, even if they were supposedly full.

“No, Mister Baggins, sir,” Frodo said, pushing the plate aside.

“None of this ‘Mister Baggins’ and ‘sir’ nonsense,” Bilbo snorted.

“Then…what should I call you, sir?” Frodo questioned, confused.

“Just…Bilbo is fine,” he said, pushing himself out of the seat and turning to dishes. He pulled off his gloves, starting to clean the mess his cousins left. “Or Uncle. Something.”

Figuring that was the end of that, Bilbo focused on changing the disgusting state his kitchen was in. He hated to brush the child off in such a way, but he was absolutely terrible with children. You would think that growing up with a minimum of a dozen little devils running around would have given him at least some paternal instinct—

“…But you’re my cousin.”

“Minor detail, Frodo. Eat you food.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I had this done a few days ago, and me, being a complete idiot, thought it would be okay to wait a few minutes before saving it. NO. IT WASN'T. MY COMPUTER CRASHED AND I LOST THIS WHOLE CHAPTER. So I had to rewrite it ;-;
> 
> Thank you for your patience!

The first night home, Bilbo couldn’t sleep at all.

After Frodo had murmured quietly that he was going to sleep and had walked to the guest room, Bilbo stayed up next to the fire, smoking his pipe and watching the flames dance.

It was uncomfortable staying being back in Bag End. Surreal. Besides a few missing, expensive things (he’d deal with those later), nothing had really changed. The air was still warm and dusty, with the many piles of books and papers spread around. The kitchen was still laden with various foods, like it had been before the dwarves had come.

The whole Shire had stayed the same. Had stayed happy. But Bilbo had most certainly not.

The worst part was that he couldn’t leave, not anymore. He had to look after Frodo. He couldn’t leave Frodo here with his cousins or take him to a new village—it wouldn’t be fair to the small boy. He was traumatized and scared as it was with his parents’ deaths and a new home, and he didn’t need to be in a strange new land with tall Men or Elves.

On the other hand, though, maybe it could be a good thing. There were a lot of painful memories in the Shire, so perhaps moving would be a breath of fresh air. A new beginning, where they could hide from meddlesome relatives and wizards who would be always trying to get them to do favors…

Bilbo felt a chuckle bubble up in the back of his throat as he tapped out the ashes from his pipe. He’d been so desperate to get home through the whole journey to the Lonely Mountain, and now that he was back, he was trying to leave. Of course this would happen to him.

Heaving himself out of the chair, Bilbo grunted and immediately fell back into it, clutching his side. Breathing heavily, he pulled up his top off his stomach, peering closely at his bandages. A blotch of pinkish blood was starting to show over the wound on the stomach, creeping outward over the white strips of cloth.

Bilbo swallowed down his irritation, exhaustion quickly taking its place. He stayed sitting until the waves of pain had subsided into dull throbs before standing back up. He shuffled his way down the halls, running his hands over the rough walls of Bag End to simultaneously steady and refamiliarize himself with his home.

Sleep eluded him throughout the night, leaving Bilbo to stare at his ceiling and mull over his thoughts. They focused primarily on how the hell he was going to take care of a three-year-old (lots and lots and lots of help from Missus Gamgee seemed like the most logical answer to that problem—she’d be one of the few people in Hobbiton who wouldn’t tut at his parenting skills or try to take Frodo away) but they did start to drift to darker corners, to the battle, to the exile, to the look of pure betrayal that Thorin wore when he found out about the Arkenstone…

That had probably been the worst. Seeing how Thorin’s face had just…fallen, and how he’d worn an expression that Bilbo had only seen when he spoke about Erebor’s fall. And then he had left, not saying a word until the day the battle had ended. Even then, it was to inform him that he was to leave as soon as possible, the hobbit’s injuries be damned.

Bilbo ran a calloused finger over the scar on his cheek slowly, the corners of his lips turning downward at the memories.

And that’s all they were now, he supposed—memories. He would never see Erebor again, neither would he be able to see its halls returned to their former grandeur nor it occupied with dwarven families. It was a sobering thought to realize that he wouldn’t be able to see the profits of all the dwarves’ and his hard work in the future. He wouldn’t even get to see his friends.

But that was probably for the best. He hadn’t had a chance to see any of the dwarves before he left Erebor with the elves, so he hadn’t been forced to deal with their disappointment. It was bad enough seeing Thorin’s, and he couldn’t have taken to see all of theirs.

He stayed lying in bed until the sky outside of his window started to lighten, bringing with it the sounds of twittering birds and the quiet pitter-patter of little feet sneaking passed his door.

Bilbo breathed out heavily through his nose. “I’ll be up in twenty minutes to make breakfast, Frodo,” he called out to the boy, hearing the footsteps stop abruptly. Frodo mumbled something and then hurried back off down the hallway.

Bilbo puttered through the daily routine he needed to do to care for his wounds—take off the bandages, check for infection, carefully apply the elvish salve, put on new bandages, and then repeat on the other cuts and burns.

As he pulled on his white smock, the smell of bacon and sausage wafted under his nose, the muffled sound of sizzling coming from the direction of the kitchen. Frowning, he pulled his shirt fully on and poked his head out into the hallway, sniffing the air. He could hear the clatter of plates and cutlery being set at the table. Was…Frodo making breakfast? How would he know how to cook? He was only a child.

Bilbo stared at Frodo from the doorway. The small boy was flitting around the kitchen, setting the table and making sure the contents of the skillet wasn’t burning on the stove. He hadn’t noticed the older hobbit yet, absorbed in his task.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked blankly.

Frodo yelped, dropping his spatula. He fumbled, attempting to catch it before it hit the ground. In the process of doing so, the back of his hand brushing against the hot skillet, wrenching a cry of pain from his throat. He let the spatula fall, cradling his hurt hand to his chest.

“Are you hurt?” Bilbo immediately asked, grabbing a napkin from the table to wrap the boy’s hand in.

Frodo shied away from Bilbo’s hand like a frightened animal, fear flashing a cross his face. He ducked his head to hide it, rubbing his burn with his unhurt hand.

“I’m f-f-fine, Mr. Baggins,” Frodo mumbled, keeping his hand from Bilbo’s sight.

Bilbo gave Frodo a level look, making the boy shift uncomfortably. He made sure his moves were deliberate and didn’t startle him as he took Frodo’s injured hand. He internally sighed with relief when he saw that the burn wasn’t bad.

“You shouldn’t be around the stove,” Bilbo admonished as he reached for one of the glasses on the water. He dabbed the napkin into it and wrapped it around Frodo’s delicate hand. “You could have hurt yourself much worse.”

Frodo’s eyes widened, panicked. “You told me to make breakfast, sir,” he whimpered.

“I said I’d make breakfast, Frodo,” Bilbo sighed heavily, pushing the hobbitling to sit at the table. “I don’t know how it was with Lobelia and Otho”—he did have a very keen idea of how it was, though—“but while you are under my care, you are _under my care_.”

“I, I don’t get what you mean, Mister Baggins,” Frodo mumbled. He was nervously pulling at his sleeves, and Bilbo could see he was trembling.

“I’m saying,” Bilbo elaborated, placing half of the bacon and sausage on Frodo’s plate, “is that you don’t have to prove why you should stay here. I’m not going to kick you out, Frodo.”

He felt a flash of irritation towards his relatives when Frodo still didn’t understand. He put the rest of the food on the plates, splitting them evenly between the two. Frodo stared at his share hungrily, swallowing hard. Did they even feed him?

“You don’t need to do major chores,” Bilbo said, sitting down across from his cousin. “Just pick up after yourself, and don’t leave that much of a mess. I’ll take care of the housework and cooking, so unless I ask you to do something of that sort, you don’t need to do it. Are we understood?”

“Yes, Mister Baggins, sir,” Frodo said without missing a beat. His hand was twitching towards the fork, eager to eat.

“And didn’t I say you didn’t have to call that?” Bilbo said, taking a bite out of a roll. “Just Bilbo. Or Uncle. Mister Baggins…doesn’t fit me anymore. Alright?”

“Yes, sir—Bilbo,” Frodo hurriedly corrected himself, cringing at having already slipped up.

Bilbo sighed. They would keep working on that. For now, they it was time to eat and to talk. Bilbo kept the conversation about little things—asking about what Frodo liked, what his hobbies were, things that should have been easy to answer. Yet Frodo seemed to struggle, taking far too long to respond, like he wasn’t sure about what he liked or disliked. It was almost as if he had forgotten.

Hamfast seemed to arrive at just the right moment with his little son, Sam, who was a couple of years older than Frodo. Bilbo was furious, his face dark and dangerous, close to sprinting out and slitting Frodo’s previous guardians’ throats before they even knew what hit them.

“Maybe yeh should go take a walk, sir,” Hamfast suggested as Sam greeted a hesitant Frodo cheerfully. “Clear yer head.” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “There’s a ranger that’s been askin’ ‘bout yeh. Says he wants ta talk to yeh.”  
Bilbo’s jaw clenched. “Do you know what he wanted?” he responded, turning his head so the hobbitlings couldn’t hear him.

“No, sir, ‘e wouldn’t say,” Hamfast responded. “’E said to meet ‘em at the edge of the woods whenever yeh had the time. I can watch the little’uns while yeh’re out—well, if yeh’re gonna meet with ‘em.”

“I will,” Bilbo said shortly.

He walked over to the front door, where he donned his cloak and attached his sword Sting to his hip. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hamfast pale at the sight of a weapon. The gardener tilted his head away from Bilbo, throwing himself into keeping Sam and Frodo entertained.

Bilbo walked the lesser-used paths to avoid as much interaction with the other hobbits as possible, not wanting to have to deal with idle chitchat. He knew that he would have to be social with people eventually, for the sake of what was left of his and Frodo’s reputations, but being seen wearing dark clothes and a weapon might not be the best.

It took Bilbo a good half hour to go reach where the Ranger was. The man was standing near a tree, out in the open (by Ranger standards) so Bilbo could find him. He had his cowl lowered over his eyes, hiding his identity.

“Good morning,” he said politely, bowing slightly. “You are Master Baggins, I presume?”

“You are correct,” Bilbo said stiffly. “May I ask as to why you were inquiring about me in town, Ranger?”

“I have a request and message from Lord Elrond of Rivendell,” the Ranger supplied. “Since I didn’t know your current place of residence, I had to ask around until I found a person who was willing to tell me your whereabouts.”

“Fair enough,” Bilbo conceded. He crossed his arms, muscles still tense and ready for a fight.

The Ranger produced a letter from one of his many pockets, handing it to Bilbo. He hobbit took it gingerly, watching the man as he inspected the letter. Lord Elrond’s seal was indented into the circle of wax, keeping it closed. He couldn’t see any indications that it had been opened before hand, which at least attested to the Ranger’s trustworthiness.

The hobbit broke the seal with one finger, unfolding the heavy parchment and reading the elegant script that was scrawled across it. He read through it, and then froze. Bilbo read it again, and then reread it before it finally sunk in what was written.

The Ranger shifted uncomfortably a few minutes later when the hobbit still hadn’t said anything. He had a basic idea of what was in the letter—Lord Elrond had given quick summary of what he was planning before sending him off with the letter, and he had no idea how Bilbo would react.

From what he’d heard, Mr. Baggins was a the epitome of a gentle hobbit—before the ordeal with Thorin Oakenshield and his dwarves, he’d been highly respectable, never doing anything particularly out of the ordinary and well-liked by his neighbors. He hadn’t even held a sword before he had left he Shire. This hobbit, though, with a war-hardened face and a sword at his side, was quite different from that hobbit.

Bilbo let out a breath tightly. “If the wargs are being attracted by me, then shouldn’t I just leave?” he asked shortly.

“It probably would only matter to some of the loners,” the Ranger said. “The other packs would just stay and terrorize the hobbits. It would be best if you did as Lord Elrond suggested and patrol with us around the borders.”

Bilbo refolded the letter and slipped it into his breast pocket. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline,” he said coldly. “My nephew is currently under my care. Even if I did want to join you killing orcs, I have to raise him and provide a stable home, which is impossible if I’m continuously away and killing things.”

“You’d be making the Shire safe for him and other children, though,” the Ranger responded quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was have to return to Rivendell and have to face Lord Elrond’s disappointment; he’d probably end up losing all of his pride in front of the elf by fearfully blubbering out apologies.

“I’m sure you and your men would be able to do that fine,” Bilbo said. “If I see any wargs or orcs, though, I’ll take care of them. I won’t be actively searching, but I won’t stand by and do nothing. Is that acceptable?”

“Of course it is, Master Baggins,” the man said, bowing. “Lord Elrond will be greatly pleased.”

“Give him my well wishes and gratitude for his help,” Bilbo said. Out of politeness, he asked, “Are you spending the night in the Shire? You are welcome to stay at Bag End if you can’t get a room at the inn…”

“Thank you, sir, but no,” the Ranger responded. “My orders are to return as soon as possible.” Bilbo nodded.

They said their goodbyes cordially before going their separate ways.

Bilbo allowed his shoulders to relax when he was a good distance away from the Ranger. No matter how many times he’s met Men, he always felt intimidated and wary of them. It wasn’t that he thought that all of them were evil and bloodthirsty—he was just acutely aware of the fact that they could easily crush someone of his size just by sitting on him.

A twinge of guilt pinched Bilbo’s heart. He felt morally obligated to help Lord Elrond with whatever he wanted, since the elf had personally healed him when he had arrived injured at Rivendell.

But at the moment, this was just something he couldn’t do. He had a traumatized hobbitling sitting in his house, under his care, and he had to think about what was the best for him, now. And that was a loving guardian, who was always there and not simply popping in and out of his life sporadically. He’d definitely be keeping a very close eye out for any signs of wargs and orcs, though.

And if or when he did find warg tracks, there would be hell to pay.

Hamfast and the children were out in the yard when Bilbo finally came back. Hamfast was diligently grooming the garden, returning it to its former glory, while Sam chatted happily with a quiet yet content Frodo.

Frodo was the first to notice Bilbo was coming up the road. He straightened up, and Bilbo saw relief glimmering in his eyes. He probably thought I wasn’t going to come back.

“Master Bilbo!” Hamfast raised a dirt-covered hand in greeting. “Everything go alright, sir?”

“Uh, yes,” he said dazedly, ruffling Frodo’s hair when he walked passed. “Yes, everything’s fine.” He would warn Hamfast about the dangers of the forests later, when the children weren’t in hearing distance.

Bilbo took off his cloak and set it by the front door, setting his sword underneath it. Rolling up his sleeves, he started digging around the garden, ignoring his friend’s complaints that he could do it himself, and that Bilbo should play with the children and rest with them.

“M’ster Bilbo?”

Bilbo looked up from digging out a prickly weed and saw Sam standing in front of him, arms behind his back and a bright smile on his face.

“What is it, Sam?” he asked, yanking the offending plant out of the ground.

“Da says you jus’ got back fr’m a ‘venture,” he said with wide eyes. “Didja really?”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at Hamfast, who gave him a sheepish grin.

“I did,” he told the young hobbit.

Sam bounced on the soles of his feet. “Can yeh tell me an’ Frodo about it?” he begged enthusiastically. “We really want ta know!”

Bilbo grimaced. None of the stories about his time with the dwarves were…appropriate. Lots of violence and swearing.

“Now, Sam,” Hamfast broke in, taking Bilbo’s silence as irritation. “Leave Master Baggins alone. ‘E prolly’s not in the mood ta tell stories right now.”

“It’s okay, Hamfast,” Bilbo interrupted. He tilted his head in thought. “Not much is stuff you would find interesting, Sam. It was a lot of walking and pony-riding, but there was a time with three trolls—“

“ _Trolls?!_ ” Sam gasped, hands flying to his mouth. “They’re real? Me Gram said that they were just a myth!”

“They’re most certainly real,” Bilbo assured him. “My travelling companions and I were almost eaten by them.” Sam’s face was filled with horrified delight.

“Oh, please, Mist’r Bilbo, tell us about that, please, please, please!”

The older hobbit glanced over at Hamfast, checking for his friend’s approval. The Gaffer wore an expression similar to his son’s, and he urged him eagerly to tell the story.

Bilbo told with story with growing confidence, getting into a rhythm the farther he went into the story. Frodo and Sam sat on a bench listening with rapt attention, hanging on to his every word. Occasionally, Sam would blurt out a question, and Hamfast would chastise him for interrupting before Bilbo would calmly answer him.  
For the first time in a long, long time, Bilbo felt at ease.

That lasted as the sun began to set on the day, and Hamfast and his son had to leave.

“Can’t we stay f’r dinner?” Sam whined, tugging at his dad’s sleeve. “I wanna stay wit’ Frodo an’ play more.”

“Yeh can come back tomorrow to play with ‘im, Sam,” Hamfast told him, grabbing his hand. “Yer Ma is waitin’ for us at home, an’ she’ll be mighty furious if yeh don’t eat dinner wit’ ‘er.”

Sam pouted, but mumbled a ‘yes, Da’ and gave Frodo a bright smile.

“I’ll come over t’morrow, yeah?” he said excitedly to his friend. “An’ then we can go see if Merry an’ Pip wanna play wit’ us!”

Frodo still seemed flustered by the attention that Sam was giving him. His mouth shaped in a shaky smile, and he whispered to Sam that that sounded great. Frodo’s head whipped up and he looked at Bilbo, desperate to make sure he hadn’t done anything wrong. Bilbo put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles.

Bilbo looked around the darkening hills, a frown making its way onto his face.  
Something wasn’t right. It was too…silent in the forest. None of the birds were twittering, and there weren’t any small animals disturbing the long grass. All of the hobbit mothers had dragged in their children and husbands for the night, firmly shutting their doors and blocking out any sounds from their homes.

“I think Frodo and I are going to walk you two home,” he said slowly, donning his traveler’s cloak and sword.

Worry flashed through Hamfast’s face. “Should we just spend th’ night?” he asked, scrutinizing all of the shadows.

“No, no,” Bilbo said vaguely. “It’s a pleasant night. A walk with friends would do us some good. Don’t you think, Frodo?” His cousin, to no one’s surprise, agreed with him without really thinking about it.

Hamfast swooped down and picked up Frodo and Sam, holding the light hobbitlings easily in his arms. As they walked down the path, Frodo and Sam chatted with each other for a while before drifting off into light dozes, cuddled into the Gaffer’s neck.

Bilbo kept his gaze sharp, his hand resting on the hilt of Sting. Keeping his voice low, Bilbo explained to his friend what the Ranger had told him about the wargs and orcs that had been spotted at the Shire’s borders.

“You and the little’uns shouldn’t go outside at night for awhile,” Bilbo advised. “And don’t let them into the woods, but if they have to, make sure someone’s with them that has some type of weapon.” Hamfast hung onto every word grimly, nodding his understanding.

Fortunately for them, they didn’t run into any trouble as they reached their destination. Hamfast transferred a fully asleep Frodo into Bilbo’s waiting hands before bidding farewell and hurrying inside. Mrs. Gamgee was at the door with the rest of her children squealing and running behind her, a cheery grin adorning her face.

“’Tis wonderful ta see yeh again, Master Baggins,” she greeted him, pulling him into a hug, much to the surprise of both men. “An’ this must be young Frodo? I haven’t had a chance ta see ‘em yet.” She brushed the back of her knuckles across Frodo’s baby-smooth cheek, gentle enough that he didn’t wake up.

“You look wonderful, Bell,” Bilbo said, stiffly letting the motherly hobbit go. “How are the children?”

“As loud and cheeky as ever,” she responded in a huff, rolling her eyes and placing her hands on her hips. “I’d love ta catch up, but let’s save it fer ‘nother time. Ye and the young’un should get home b’fore it gets too dark.”

Bilbo nodded, taking his leave with a warning to Mrs. and Mr. Gamgee to carefully watch their children. Mrs. Gamgee noticed that Bilbo was stone-faced and serious when he said this, but before she could ask why, her husband was leading her inside and closing the door behind them.

Bilbo walked down the path, the moonlight illuminating his way. It was still deathly silent, not even the insects humming in the undergrowth. It set his teeth on edge and made him tighten his grip on the soundly asleep Frodo. The first sound that he did hear, after a few minutes, was the splashing of water from behind the trees, where the Brandywine River ran. It sounded as if something was falling into the water.

Frodo immediately jerked awake, eyes trained at the area where the sound had come from. His small grip tightened in Bilbo’s shirt.

“Don’t go down there,” he said desperately, sensing that Bilbo was about to veer off the path towards it.

“Why not?” he murmured, adjusting his hold on Frodo.

The boy turned his terrified gaze to his cousin. “There’s something in the river,” he whispered. “It gets people at night.”

Bilbo heard the splashing again, followed by the sound of breaking tree branches. Frodo whimpered, burying his face in the juncture where Bilbo’s neck and shoulder met. He was trembling uncontrollably, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the older hobbit.

“Please, please don’t go over there,” the hobbitling begged him. His breath was hitching, as if he were about to cry, but tears weren’t gathering up in his eyes. “It’s not safe, I don’t want you to die like Ma and Da, please, Mister Bilbo.”

“It’s okay,” Bilbo shushed him. He crouched down and set Frodo onto his feet, tenderly pushing the boy away so he could look into his face. “I have to go and check what it is, alright?”

“No!” Frodo wailed. “Please, Mister Bilbo! I don’t wanna go back to Mrs. Lobelia and Mr. Otho!” His voice broke at their names, like even mentioning them caused him pain.

“You won’t go back to them, Frodo,” Bilbo assured him. He pulled Sting and its scabbard off his belt and held it between them. “I have a sword, see? I’m going to be fine. I’m just going to go down there for a few seconds, see what it is that’s making those splashes, and then I’ll be right back here. I’m not going to get hurt, I swear.”

Frodo didn’t look convinced, just…resigned. He wrapped his arms around himself and huddled in a ball next to a tree, practically hidden by a group of ferns. Bilbo took off his cloak and wrapped it around the smaller hobbit, making sure he was warm and settled.

“Stay here,” Bilbo instructed him. “If you get scared or someone comes up to you, just come and get me.” Frodo nodded, taking deep and calming breaths.

Bilbo kept his sword sheathed as he silently neared the river. If there was anything that was in it, he would come back the next day with the Rangers to deal with it. It would be too dangerous to try to face it in the middle of the night, when it was too dark to see everything.

The part he was nearing was a branch of the main river, and the water that should have been still had ripples disturbing its surface. The bottom was a murky black, the white moonlight bouncing off it. A few branches floated, leaves still attached, along with a mutilated, dead bird.

As Bilbo moved closer to the water’s edge, he could see something moving under the water. It was about the height of a full-grown hobbit, but slim and scaly, like a fish. It ducked into the murky depths of the river before Bilbo could catch a good look at it, though. In a flash, though, it was back. It darted back up to the surface and grabbed the dead bird, most likely with its jaws, but it was hard to tell through the splashing water, before rushing back down to the bottom of the river.

Bilbo was greatly disturbed by that sight. There weren’t supposed to be any dangerous fish in the Brandywine, especially something that size. That fish could easily eat a hobbit whole!

A horrified realization struck Bilbo.

That was probably what had gotten Primula and Drogo. Hamfast had said that their bodies weren’t ever found, most likely getting carried by the current and getting tangled in some of the plants at the bottom of the river. But that was starting to seem less and less likely, when there was a beast in the river that ate meat.

Making sure to stay a good distance away, Bilbo tried to get another look at it. Picking up a rock, he chucked it into the center of the lake and waited for the beast to show itself again. After a few minutes of waiting—

A scream pierced the air, echoing around the forest.

Bilbo took off sprinting back down the path he had come down, his nephew’s name repeating itself in his head. He drew his bright blue sword as he ran to Frodo, his heart in his throat.

Frodo was backed up against a tree with a pack of three wargs circling around him. They were drooling hungrily, jaws snapping at the hobbit and dark eyes searching for an opening. An orc was standing a few yards away from them, growling out orders to the animals in its guttural language. A nasty grin was spread over its face as it jumped up and down eagerly, gesturing madly at the scared hobbit boy.

Bilbo acted swiftly and without pause. He rushed to the closest warg and leaped onto its back, forcing Sting through the corded muscles in its neck. The warg let out a howl, black blood spurting out of the wound as Bilbo yanked his sword out. He stabbed again and again until the creature flopped over onto its side, lifeless.

Bilbo leaped off of it and twirled around, swinging his sword at the orc. The orc was fumbling to get his own rusting blade off his belt, but he was too slow. Sting cut through half of the orc’s neck before it was stopped by bone. The orc screeched in pain, gnashing its scraggly and broken teeth in Bilbo’s furious and blood-splattered face.

Planting his foot on the orc’s chest, Bilbo pulled Sting out of it and kicked it onto the ground. He was about to attack one of the two wargs left when the other leapt at Frodo.

Frodo dove to the side, barely managing to escape the warg’s lethal claws. The back of his shirt did get snagged by a few of the claws, and they sliced through the thin cloth with ease. Frodo stumbled away from his attacker, barely managing to catch himself before he tripped and fell.

Bilbo reached forward and grabbed the front of the young hobbit’s shirt when he was close enough, yanking Frodo behind him. He kept himself in between them as the wargs prepared to another attack, muscles tensing and rippling beneath their matted fur.

One of them finally made a charge at Bilbo, mouth open in a snarl and claws outstretched. Before the warg got too close, an arrow came flying out of nowhere, piercing through its skull. It let out an aborted yip as two more followed in quick succession, embedding themselves into its body.

The other warg looked around jerkily, confused as to where the attack was coming from. More arrows flew towards them, slaying it before it lashed out at Frodo and Bilbo.

Two Rangers appeared out of the darkness, shouldering their bows. One of them was the Ranger from earlier that day, and he rushed over to Bilbo’s side.

“Master Baggins, are you injured?” he asked urgently.

“I am fine,” he panted, wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand.  
His gut clenched when he remembered Frodo’s close call. He turned around and crouched next to the child, who was sitting behind him and still trembling. He maneuvered the trembling boy so his pale back glowed in the moonlight and he could see the damage.

The shirt was completely ruined, four long slashes going through it. The white material was stained a bright red from the gashes that the warg had left, and the blood was still leaking out.

That wasn’t all. Underneath the crimson liquid and cuts, there were scars. Horrible, horrible scars that looked like they had only recently healed. They covered most of Frodo’s back, a few crisscrossing over Frodo’s upper arms.

“By the Valar,” the Ranger breathed, taking in the wounds.

“Frodo?” Bilbo asked frantically, flipping Frodo over. “Are you alright? Can you here me?”

“I-I’m fine,” Frodo sobbed, arms wrapping around Bilbo’s neck. “I just wanna go home.” He flinched violently when the Ranger tried to touch him, moving closer to his cousin to get away.

“These are serious,” the Ranger muttered to Bilbo. A fire was burning behind his eyes as his hand hovered over one of the scars. “How far away is your home? I can carry him.”

“I have him,” Bilbo said, lifting Frodo up into his arms. “What about the bodies?”

“My partner has it,” the Ranger said offhandedly, rushing into the bushes and grabbing a plain rucksack from the bushes. He threw it over his shoulders and they were running out of the woods onto the path.

The race to Bag End was a blur, and the next thing Bilbo knew, he was laying a barely lucid Frodo on his stomach on Bilbo’s own bed, while the Ranger stoked the fireplace and started rummaging through his supplies, pulling out bandages and herbs.

Bilbo produced a bloodstained towel from a drawer and soaked it into the athelas-infused water the Ranger had mixed in a basin. He wrung it out, and then sat next to Frodo as he started to dab at the wounds.

Frodo hissed in pain, but held in his cries by biting his bottom lip. He wound his fists into the blanket, breathing quickly and shallowly.

“It’s okay, Frodo,” Bilbo tried to calm him. With his free hand, he hesitantly laid it over Frodo’s fist. “Me and the Ranger are going to take care of you, alright?” Frodo let out an aborted sob, letting go of the sheets to grab Bilbo’s hand.

“Help him up,” the Ranger said, holding a mug of what seemed to be tea. “This will make most of the pain go away, okay, Frodo? Just take a few sips, there’s a good lad.” He lowered Frodo back onto his stomach.

The Ranger and Bilbo spent the next half hour tending to Frodo, cleaning the cuts thoroughly (who knew where those warg’s claws had been) and bandaging him. The tea Frodo had been given made him tired, relaxed and more loose-lipped than usual, which was fortunate for the older man and hobbit.

Under their probing questions, Frodo revealed that the scars were, indeed, from Lobelia and Otho. They were punishment, he said, for various things he’d done wrong: dropping plates, crying too loudly, talking out of turn, not doing chores fast enough…

The Ranger had taken his leave quite quickly after that. He had been darkly cheerful as he instructed Bilbo on how to take care of his cousin, afterwards happily saying that he was going to give the Sackville-Bagginses a visit.

"Ranger."

The Ranger looked up from where he was packing up his bag, leaving some dried herbs on the table. He stopped momentarily and waited for Bilbo to speak.

Bilbo swallowed. "I've changed my mind," he sighed heavily. "I'll join you and the the others in clearing out the wargs." The Ranger smiled, nodding.

"That's wonderful," the Ranger said. "It will be a pleasure working with you."

"One last thing," Bilbo said. "What are you planning on doing with Lobelia and Otho?"

"Well, I would like to give them a taste of their own medicine, but that is frowned upon by the Rangers," he told Bilbo matter-of-factly, earning a dry chuckle. "So, I'll just take them up to the jail and leave them to decide their fate."

Bilbo nodded and bid the Ranger farewell.

Bilbo’s own wounds were starting to hurt again. The adrenaline and pain medication had let him ignore it for most of the day, but now that he was winding down, he could feel it again.

“’Re you alr’ght, M’ster Bilbo?” Frodo slurred out, seeing Bilbo winced as the older hobbit pulled off his shirt.

“Now is most certainly not the time to worry about me, Frodo,” Bilbo admonished him gently.

He changed into a pair of sleep pants, too exhausted to find a shirt. He made a mental note to make a larger than usual breakfast for the two of them when he dully remembered that they had skipped dinner.

“M’ster Bilbo, y’re hurt, too,” Frodo yawned as Bilbo clambered into the large, soft bed next to him.

“I got attacked by some orcs when I came back from the dwarves,” Bilbo told him bluntly, pulling the blanket so it was over the younger’s shoulders. “Hush, we’ll talk in the morning. For now, you just need to sleep.” Frodo mumbled something in agreement, eyelids falling heavily.

Frodo scooted closer to Bilbo almost immediately, fingers intertwining with Bilbo’s and head resting on his shoulder. Bilbo froze, but he hesitantly put his arm around Frodo.

“Um. Bilbo?”

“Hm?” Bilbo hummed, keeping his eyes closed.

He felt petal-soft lips brush against his cheek. “Thanks f’r taking me in.”

Bilbo couldn’t wipe off the happy grin from his face as he pressed a kiss into Frodo’s curly hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, to sleep for two hours before getting ready for school. Ugh. I love you all!  
> ((if you left a comment, I would be most greatful u.u))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the dwarves join the story! :o

_One year later..._

The Halls of Erebor glittered in their magnificence as the dwarves feasted.

It was a celebration, to rejoice the fact that a whole wing of the mountain had been cleared out and opened. The process had taken long, long months, and it still wasn’t fully cleaned out, but it was fit for living. The dwarves had made sure the halls were sound, that they wouldn’t collapse, and that all of the dangerous animals and decaying bodies had been removed. The rooms would be refurbished by their new owners.

The news was wonderful for the families that were still forced to sleep together in the cold main hall, awaiting rooms. Now, they could all have their own, comfortable areas and more families could begin the trek to the mountain, knowing they would have a home awaiting them.

Atop the throne, wearing a crown and exuding a kingly aura, sat Thorin Oakenshield. He had his head resting in one hand, the other loosely holding a mug of ale. He swirled it around absently, finding it almost impossible to join in with the festivities.

It had been less than a month after they recaptured Erebor for the gold-induced haze clouding his mind to disappear, leaving him aghast and wracked with guilt. Thorin could barely remember what had happened at first, so far gone had he been. But after his nephews had spat out the story, it had all rushed back to him.

Around the same time, Gandalf had told them the real reason why their burglar had taken the Arkenstone, how Bilbo had only done it to secure an alliance with the armies that would have otherwise been their enemies. The plan may have not been completely thought through on Bilbo’s part, but it had worked as well as he could have hoped.

When he was told this, Thorin wanted desperately, oh so desperately, to take a pony and go riding without stopping to the Shire and beg Bilbo for forgiveness. His little love must have been so hurt, so confused, having to leave what should have been his new home--when he was still injured, nonetheless--in exile, when all he had been doing was helping the dwarves.

Thorin’s advisors had warned him against leaving Erebor or sending someone after the gentle hobbit, though. Thorin’s reign over the mountain was still too young for him to go rushing off; someone would most definitely attempt to claim the throne, and that would just start a mess that they had no time for at the moment. The few troops they had with them were on practically constant duty, and everyone else was at work rebuilding the mountain to its full glory. No one could be spared to go to the Shire and reconcile relations with Bilbo.

Thorin was left to his tormented thoughts, having to deal with the overwhelming grief _and_ leading his people. His dreams were plagued with visions or Bilbo wandering down the roads alone, screaming for the dwarven king’s help as he was viciously torn apart by wargs and Erebor burned under Smaug’s flames in the background. It was rare nowadays that he would get even a half night’s sleep with these horrible images swimming through his mind.

“Thorin.”

The king glanced up, seeing Fili approaching him. His nephews had been some of the angriest with him for exiling Bilbo. The little hobbit had taken on the role of another paternal figure during their trip, making sure they were well fed and mentally healthy. Fili and Kili hadn’t spoken to their uncle for a year after Bilbo, but now they would only talk to him when it was necessary.

Fili was out of breath, like he had been running. A grin, the widest Thorin had seen in ages, was splitting Fili’s face.

“Gandalf’s here,” he announced breathlessly. “He’s with Mother in the conference—“

Thorin was already out of his seat and practically sprinting down the hallway before his nephew could finish his sentence. He was vaguely aware of Dwalin and Fili following him, but his mind was focused solely on Gandalf.

At Thorin and the rest of the company’s begging, the wizard had agreed to visit the Shire and check on Bilbo. He had left a week prior, with his rickety cart and horses, swearing to return as soon as possible. It seemed as if he had held up to that promise, and was back bearing news.

Dis, Bofur and Kili and were already into the conference room, talking to Gandalf. Other members of the company were starting to file in when Thorin burst in, chest heaving and halting any conversation.

“Gandalf,” he greeted the wizard, striding into the room. “What news do you bring of our thief?"

Gandalf sipped at his tea, his silence infuriating. Thorin knew he had skipped the usual politeness his people showed to guests, but his worry pushed him to skipped through them and get to the point.

“He was unavailable," he said slowly.

"How was he unavailable?!" Kili exclaimed, worry flashing in his eyes. “Is he injured?”

"No, no, he is unharmed,” Gandalf assured the company, who all sighed in relief. “It’s nearing wolf season in the Shire, and his neighbours told me that he’s working with the elves and the Rangers to keep them at bay.”

“The elves?” a few of the dwarves spluttered indignantly.

“It makes sense,” Oin muttered, giving a pointed look at Thorin. The younger dwarf winced, turning his head shamefully.

“But he’s happy, right?” Ori pressed, clutching a book tightly to his chest.

“‘E’s back in his little hole in the ground,” Dwalin snorted. “A’course he’s happy.” He looked at the wizard expectantly, waiting for him to agree.

Gandalf produced a pipe from his robes. “Happy is a...relative term,” he said thoughtfully, puffing out a few rings of smoke into the air. “Bilbo is content in the way he is living, I suppose. He is keeping himself busy, visiting Lord Elrond and dealing with the various orcs and goblins that somehow manage to make it into the Shire.”

Kili’s expressive face morphed into horror. “They’ve managed to get into the Shire?”

“They’re everywhere these days,” Gandalf said sagely. “There’s not that many in the Shire, but even a few can kill dozens of helpless hobbits before they’re stopped.” He puffed out a neat ring of smoke, watching his dissipate. “He’s not the same burglar we used to know, I am told. He’s changed.”

There was a silence after he spoke, his words weighing heavily on everyone’s hearts. Dis laid a comforting hand on her brother’s shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt to console Thorin.

“Was it because of the exile?” he asked hoarsely, the words almost catching in his throat. “Because of how things were left?”

His nephews sent him surprised glances; neither of them were expecting Thorin to bring up Bilbo’s banishment without trying to justify his actions tooth and nail, or at all. In the past, whenever someone would dare to bring it up, he would either verbally berate them and have them thrown out of the room, or stand up and leave without saying anything, and not return until a good five hours alter.

“It was more of what the exile led to, I believe,” Gandalf answered delicately, not wanting to upset the dwarven king too much. “The road back to Hobbiton wasn’t easy for him. He ran into quite a few difficulties, and was gravely injured when he stayed at Rivendell.”

“How did this happen?” Bofur demanded. “Didn’t Thranduil and those other tree-huggers give him any guards to escort him back?”

“Their troop were already stretched too thin across their own land, as it is with every kingdom,” Gandalf explained. “Bilbo knew this, and refused to take a guard. From what I’ve learned, he travelled with a group of Men before they were attacked and he was forced to stay and heal in Rivendell. He was the only survivor.”

“W-were the wounds bad?” Kili whispered weakly, clutching his brother’s hand.

“Lord Elrond wouldn’t go into details, but I assume that yes. They were.”

Fili shuddered a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt Kili tense next to him, but otherwise stayed still. The brothers, along with the other dwarves, turned their attention to Thorin. Their king had his jaw clenched, his skin having slowly paled the more Gandalf talked. His fists were clenched tightly, his blunt nails digging into his palms.

“Does he miss us?” Ori asked the question that was on everyone’s minds. Dori and Nori pressed comfortingly against the sides of their baby brother, Dori stroking the back of Ori’s head.

Gandalf gave the young dwarf a sad smile. “It would be impossible for him not to, young Ori,” he said.

“Then we should go to the Shire,” Kili blurted out. “Get him to come back and stay with us! Mr. Boggins didn’t really get to see Erebor the first time he was here, especially not the way it is now”—

“The way it should be seen,” Fili added, his brother’s enthusiasm infectious.

“That might not be the best of things to do…” Oin said with a grimace.

“Why not?” Kili frowned. “We’d just be apologizing for…” He waved his hand, not wanting to actually say the word. “Things. And thanking him properly for helping us get our home back.”  
Thorin slumped heavily in his seat, rubbing his chin. “He won’t want to come back, Kili,” he said quietly. “There would be no point in going all the way out there and then just having to turn around.”

“Well, we should at least go check on him,” Nori joined in. “Our burglar deserves to know that you aren’t cloudy in the head anymore”—Dwalin let out a warning growl, which the other responded to with a leveled glare.

“You’d better watch yer tongue, thief,” he spat out.

“Oh, shut up,” Nori sneered. “He was being a prat back then, and you know it.”

“’E’s still the King of Erebor, and deserves yer respect!” Dwalin said, his voice raising.

“Can you two stop fighting for two seconds?” Balin snapped at them. “This is more important than your pathetic bickering.”

The two ignored him, their voices rising steadily.

“If anyone should be going, it most certainly should not be you two,” Bombur grunted at Fili and Kili. “You two’d git yerselves killed by those stinkin’ elves as soon as ye’d reach ‘em!”

Fili straightened his back indignantly. “As if we’d let ourselves get taken by those fools so easily!” he defended him and his brother. “Some of us actually have stealth!”

“As much stealth as a bear trundling through the forest,” Bofur jabbed, smirking victoriously when the two brothers took the bait and started spitting insults at him.

It all seemed to turn to chaos then. Dori and Balin attempted to stop Dwalin and Nori before fists started flying, speaking louder and louder to try and be heard over them. Fili and Bofur were about to start fighting also, being held down in their seats by the others. Kili and Ori were chatting excitedly, planning out what needed to be done for their trip and all the wonderful things that they would show Bilbo when he arrived—

“That’s enough!” Thorin roared, stopping everyone. He took a few moments to reign in his temper, teeth grinding together. “No one is going to the Shire,” he stated. “And that’s final.”

“No.”

The room’s attention turned to Dis, who had been quiet throughout the meeting. As soon as the yelling had begun, she’d shared a knowing look with Gandalf before returning to her book, occasionally sipping from her teacup.

“No?” Thorin asked blankly.

“Yes,” his sister responded. “No.”

“No to what?”

“My boys _are_ going to the Shire to get Mr. Baggins,” she clarified smoothly. “With guards, and whoever else wishes to join them. So I’m guessing Bofur, Ori, and probably Dwalin, since he won’t want to let those boys out of his sight…”

“Sister!” Thorin exclaimed, horrified. “What are you saying?! They are not going to—“

“You don’t really have a say, Thorin darling,” she smiled at him. “They’re my children, are they not?”

“And I’m the bloody _king_!” he spluttered. “You can’t just go about disobeying my orders like this!”

Dis raised an eyebrow, staying dangerously calm. “I think you’ll find that I can,” she said in a short, clipped tone. “It shames our family name if we don’t fix our past mistakes, and care for those who have helped us.”

“It—is—pointless,” Thorin bit out. “Knowing B…him, he would just give them tea and then send them back home without him.”

“We’ll talk about this in private,” Dis said. She motioned for everyone to leave the room. “Dwalin, pick out five guards to accompany the party to the Shire. You leave in two days’ time, so I suggest those who wish to accompany my sons should prepare accordingly.”

The dwarves murmured to each other as they filed out of the room, shutting the heavy doors after them. The only three who remained in the conference room were Dis, Thorin and Gandalf, who all sat beside each other at the long table.

“Brother,” Dis said firmly, gripping her brother’s hand between her own. “I know you don’t like this, but it has to be done.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Thorin snapped at her, pulling his arm away from her. She clamped down tighter, refusing to let go. “We should let the hobbit live out the rest of his days in peace. He didn’t want to go with us in the first place, so he won’t want to come back now.”

“You’re lying,” Dis smiled sadly. “And you know it, too.”

“I’m not lying, sister,” he snarled. “You’re just trying to make up reasons for why you can disobey my orders!”

At any other time, Thorin knew that Dis would have given up on tact and would be beating him into submission. The way that she was actually staying calm, keeping her head, while _Thorin_ was yelling had him more unnerved that he would like to admit. Why couldn’t things stay normal?

“Be reasonable,” Gandalf chastised him. “Why would Dis want to challenge your authority?” Thorin was unable to respond to the question, so he chose to ignore it.

“This will not end well, as you two suspect,” he said agitatedly, fist itching to slam into something. “You were not there when I exiled him, nor did you know—“ He stopped himself before he finished. _Nor did you know that I loved him._

Dis spoke quietly, softly. “Thorin. I know that you were courting Bilbo.”

The king took a sharp breath, feeling his heart crawl down to his stomach. Dis wasn’t supposed to know that. No one was supposed to know. Gandalf, the bloody wizard must have seen them in the rare moments that they had sneaked away, and told her. He turned in his seat to snarl at the elderly man, but he saw that he was stunned, pipe nearly falling out of his agape mouth.

“Fili and Kili told me,” Dis explained. _I should have known._

“You and Mr. Baggins were courting?” Gandalf asked in astonishment. “How was I unaware of this?”

Thorin shrugged stiffly. “It was kept quiet,” he said. “From you and the rest of the company. “ His throat constricted. “We…we would have announced it officially after we had reclaimed Erebor.” His gaze dropped, not seeing the way Gandalf and Dis shared sympathetic looks.

“You need to mend your relationship with him, dearest brother. Even if you cannot be with him, you must say a proper goodbye to each other,” Dis said. “If you do not, the rest of your courtships shall be destined for sadness.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, having to reach up because of their height difference.

“I am not a child, Dis,” he murmured, defeated. “I am aware of what may come to pass.”

“I was not trying to belittle your intelligence,” she laughed lightly. “I am reminding you, my King.”

He sighed. “Are there any others in my company that know about me and…Bilbo?” The name scorched his throat, making his chapped lips tingle and burn.

“Only Dwalin and my boys,” Dis said. “I believe that Oin may be suspecting something, but he has yet to reach a conclusion.” Thorin nodded, leaning into his sister’s comforting embrace.

“What will you have me do, then?” he asked her. “Go with my nephews to the Shire?”

“Let them go first, and explain things to your burglar,” she said. “While they are gone, you will have time to prepare the kingdom for your leave. I’m sure those idiotic advisors of yours will have a million things for you to do before you leave Erebor.”

“I shall take my leave now, if it is fine,” Gandalf said, putting out his pipe and standing up. “This was only a short visit—I have some business to attend to with the elves. I’ll make sure to go to the Shire as soon as I finish, so I’ll hopefully be able to reign in Kili and Fili before they do more damage than good.”

Thorin felt sick to his stomach.

“Oh, just leave before you do more damage than good,” Dis snapped at the wizard, throwing her napkin at him.

Gandalf winced, realizing his attempt at humor had been taken seriously. “Terribly sorry, my dear Thorin,” he apologized. “I was trying to lighten the mood, but it seems that that joke was a bit crude.”

“It’s fine,” Thorin muttered, waving his hand. “Safe travels.” Gandalf dipped his head and left the room.

“Relax, brother,” Dis said after it was just the two of them, hugging him close and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Everything will be alright in the end. I swear upon the Valar that it will.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dis,” he sighed heavily. “Especially not to the gods.”

“Okay,” she said loudly before he had finished, clapping her hands twice. “If you are just going to argue with me, then we are done talking about it. Share a cup of tea with me, and then we’ll both go properly announce the trip you and the others are going on.”

Dis pulled his empty cup closer, and poured fragrant tea into it. Thorin reluctantly took a swig of it before setting it back down on the table, half-listening to his sister chatter on about the new gossip she’d heard. His mind kept on focusing back on the promise his sister had made. _I hope you’re right, Dis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always make me happy u.u


	4. Chapter 4

Hamfast watched grimly as Bilbo threw the dead wolf onto the wagon. The other two were already on it, their black blood staining the wood and lifeless eyes staring off into space.

“That’s it,” Bilbo told the Man who was waiting for him.

He nodded, pulling out a bag of coin and offering it to Hamfast. The gardener took it and tucked it away in a pocket. This had been going on for dozens of winters—whenever the wolves came out and had to be dealt with, there would be numerous traders who would flock around to buy the bodies and pelts. The Rangers would leave the bodies of the slain wolves, and the hobbits would sell them to the traders. Bilbo never had a need for the extra money, nor little trinkets. So, he would give the money to Hamfast and his family, and they could buy their children presents for the upcoming winter celebrations.

“Good hunting,” the man said to Bilbo and Hamfast as he clambered up into the drivers seat, urging the two horses forward.

Hamfast raised his hand in farewell as the trader disappeared around a bend in the road, leaving the two hobbits alone on the walk back to Hobbiton.

“Th’ wolves are more active this year,” Hamfast commented idly, brushing snow off his cloaked shoulders.

Bilbo snorted. “Everything dangerous is more active this year,” he muttered bitterly, earning a grunt of agreement from his companion.

The Shire’s opinion of Bilbo had done almost a complete one-eighty from when he had first arrived. Instead of sneers and fearful glances that had plagued him for the first few weeks, they now watched him reverently and joyfully. They finally, finally had a hero of their own species to look up to.

The Shire was historically known as the home of the gentile hobbits. None of them carried any weapons, and they lived their days out in laughter and comfort. Whenever the harsh winters came, they were forced to rely on either the Men or the elves to send troops to help them. In return, they would give them a portion of their crops during harvest season, and allow their people to pass through the Shire without difficulty or troubles.

Now that they had Bilbo, they wouldn’t have to rely so heavily on the Rangers and elves for help. They were good protectors, yes, but they didn’t have any connection to the land, nor reason to go out of their way to help the hobbits. Bilbo, even though he had been gone for a few years, knew the way things worked and how the Shire’s residents would react in certain situations. He was loyal to them, no matter what the gossips said, and genuinely loved the land.

Reaching Hobbiton, Hamfast and Bilbo were greeted with the screams and of a lady hobbit. She was on her knees, sobbing into her apron as her husband tried to console her while blinking away his own tears. There was a blue scarf clutched in her hand—a traditional gift of mourning given to the mother of the deceased. She reached out desperately to the two male hobbits that were walking away, but her husband held her back. One of them was carrying a child’s body, covered in a white sheet. Pink splotches were forming around where the head and back were, marring the pristine white of the cloth.

Hamfast took off his hat and they stood in respectful silence as the two passed, bowing their heads. Other hobbits were attracted by the screams and did the same, a few whispering prayers to the Valar. The mother’s hoarse and animalistic cries of pain echoed around the hills as her husband and another lady led her back into her home, even as she struggled and begged for her son, to hold him one last time.

When she was inside and her wails were muffled, the mourners returned to their homes, wanting to get inside before the sun set and the wolves were more apt to attack. Hamfast and Bilbo sluggishly continued on their way.

“That’s the fourth child this winter,” Hamfast said softly, donning his hat again. His eyes kept drifting behind them in the direction of the grieving mother’s hobbit hole. “Twice as many as last winter.”

“I’ll tell the Rangers to double the shifts the next time I see them,” Bilbo said, face emotionless as he scanned the hillside. It set his teeth on edge how close the wolf attacks were getting to town—more specifically, to Bag End and Frodo.

Frodo had taken everything in stride since Day 1, much to Bilbo’s shock. He never complained about Bilbo being gone for days on end, and always followed what Miss Viola (the elderly widow who had agreed to be his tutor and nanny) told him to do. He was quieter than the other children, choosing to read books from Bilbo’s library rather than roughhousing with the boys his age. He was uncomfortable and awkward with everyone except a select few, which included Sam, Hamfast, Miss Viola and his uncle.

“Give my regards to the missus,” Bilbo told Hamfast when they reached Bag End.

“I’ll make sure ta do that,” the gardener said. “She’s lookin’ forward to havin’ Frodo entertain Sam so she don’t have to.” Bilbo gave him the smile he always gave, which never was able to reach his eyes nor have joy in it.

Bilbo entered his warm home, unwrapping the scarf from his neck and removing the weapons from his belt and storing them on a shelf high in the closet. He called out that he was back, and was rewarded with the pitter-patter of little hobbit feet. Frodo rounded the corner, clutching a large book to his chest and wearing his nightclothes. Miss Viola was close behind, her wrinkly face set in a perpetual frown.

“You’re back late,” Frodo pointed out, setting the book down and giving his uncle a hug. The way he said it wasn’t accusing; he was informing his uncle that he was later than when he had said he would be home.

“And you’re up late, my boy,” he said, kissing Frodo’s forehead. “You should have been in bed hours ago.”

“Miss Viola told me I could stay up until you got home,” Frodo responded, making the old hobbit chuckle.

“Because ye begged and begged me, ya little brat,” she complained, stroking a hand over his soft curls. “Put him ta bed three times, I did, ‘fore I gave up an’ let ‘im read ta me.” She gestured towards the book Frodo had been carrying.

“Thought I told you not to give Viola any trouble,” Bilbo teased Frodo, poking him between the ribs. Frodo choked on his giggle, fighting to get away from his uncle.

“I _tried_ sleeping,” Frodo defended. “I just couldn’t.”

“I know, darling. How about you go and wash your hands, and I’ll fix us up a late snack, yeah?” Frodo brightened at the mention of food, like all little hobbits did, and trotted out of the room.

Bilbo turned to Miss Viola, who was lowering herself into a chair. “I’m so sorry, Viola,” he said, pulling his coat off.

“It’s the third time this week you’ve been late,” she told him through pursed lips.

Bilbo groaned helplessly. “I hurried back as fast as I could,” he defended. “Me and Hamfast ran into some traders who had no bloody idea what they were doing, had to find someone ta deal with ‘em, and then there were two stray orcs at the borders, but we took care of them right quick.”

“More orcs?” she said in alarm, sitting forward.

“Nothing that should be worried about,” Bilbo assured her, leaning against the table. “Just a few drifters that got away from the horde in Mordor.”

“Still doesn’t make me feel very safe,” she grumbled. “Those reinforcements from the Men are obviously doing fuck all.”

“Language,” Bilbo couldn’t resist mocking her. “Frodo’s going to pick up some new words if you aren’t careful.” Her reproving look lacked any real heat. “The reinforcements just got here, so you can’t fault them for not doing anything yet. It takes awhile to figure out where they should go.”

“Yes, yes,” she waved her hand flippantly. “I get it. Enough with th’ excuses. Send a person up ‘ere next time yer late, so we aren’t sittin’ here fearing you’ve been mauled by ‘drifters’ an’ are on yer death bed.”

“You’re overly dramatic, Viola.”

“Oh, it ain’t me who’s thinkin’ this. It’s Frodo. He’ll never say ‘e is, but he looks terrified when yer even a few minutes overdue. Looks like a kicked kitten while he sits by th’ window, waitin’ for ya. ‘S all I can do ta keep ‘im from runnin’ out ta go find yeh.”

Bilbo winced, dragging a hand through his unruly hair. “I’ll make sure to send someone if—“

“When.”

“ _—when_ I get caught up with protecting every hobbit in the Shire.”

“Watch your cheek, Bilbo Baggins,” she brandished her cane. “You ain’t old enough fer me to pull ye over m’ knee.”

“I washed my hands, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo trotted in, halting Bilbo’s sharp-tongued retort.

“Wonderful,” Bilbo said, pulling out the chair for the small hobbitling. “You and Miss Viola can tell me all about your day while we wait for the water to boil.”

“Oh no, I won’t,” she chuckled. “’Tis well past my bedtime, so I’ll head off to bed.” She struggled out of the chair with Bilbo’s help, accepting the kiss to her cheek from Frodo. “Goodnight. Don’t stay up too late.” She left the kitchen, heading towards the guest room that had been unofficially dubbed hers after the first time she slept over.

Tea was had with minimal conversation in Bilbo’s study, the quiet and warm atmosphere lulling Frodo into a half awake state. The young hobbit managed to give Bilbo a brief and vague summary of his day before he was too tired to talk anymore, eyelids drooping while he sipped his drink and nibbled on a biscuit. Knowingly, the hobbitling’s uncle picked a book from his shelves and opened it to the beginning, allowing the words to flow out in a monotonous tone that had Frodo asleep within the first ten pages.

He set the teacups aside and carried Frodo to his room. The child’s room was plainer than any youngling’s room ought to be, but Frodo seemed to like it like that. Whenever anyone in Frodo’s trusted circle of friends—Hamfast, Viola, Bilbo and Sam—would try to persuade him to decorate it in any way, he would politely tell them that he was fine with the way his room was and return to whatever he was doing.

Tucking Frodo in, Bilbo went straight into his room and collapsed face first onto his bed, falling asleep within minutes.

***

“Have a fun time,” Bilbo waved after Miss Viola as Frodo lead her down the path. “Make sure you don’t give Missus Gamgee any grief!”

“I won’t, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo called over his shoulder.

Bilbo closed the door and sighed heavily, going into his room to change into proper clothes. He’d sent Frodo out to spend the day with Missus Gamgee and Sam at the inn, so the house would be empty for the meeting he was supposed to have. As he’d told Miss Viola the night before, the new reinforcements that had been sent to the Shire had to be organized and equally spread out. Not only that, but the others’ schedules had to change, and then they had to be taught the proper etiquette on how to deal with the hobbits…

Bilbo washed the dirt and grime off his body from yesterday before putting on clean clothes. He tidied up the study and kitchen, setting out all of his cakes and snacking foods—these Men always seemed to be hungry and willing to eat him out of house and home, reminding him of a certain time those years ago with some certain dwarves—

No. He had neither the time nor patience to think about that. Bilbo was a busy man, and that was far in the past. There was no need to ‘reminisce’ about what fun he had travelling with them and what could have been if Thorin wasn’t such a pigheaded, greedy, _thick-skulled_ little—

Bilbo angrily shook his head and dug through his papers, trying to find what he would need for the meeting. He found it underneath a stack of Frodo’s recently read books right as there was a knocking at the door. _Of course they’re early._

“Coming, coming,” he uttered under his breath as he set the papers on the edge of his desk and rushed to the front door to let the Men in. He pulled the door open, a professional smile on his face—

It wasn’t the Men.

Standing side by side was two brothers wearing travelling clothes, packs thrown over their shoulders. Four Ponies were a few yards away, nosing the ground for grass and vegetation to eat with the other two travellers standing next to them. They all had carefully plaited braids in their hair, and all but one had a full beard.

_“Bilbo.”_

Fili and Kili dashed towards their hobbit with their arms outstretched, expressions overjoyed. They were only a step away before the shock morphed into red anger inside Bilbo. He took a step back and slapped Fili’s arm away from him, looking practically murderous.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a dangerously low voice.

Fili and Kili’s joy melted down into pained confusion—and no, Bilbo’s heart didn’t feel a twinge at that sight. Fili collected himself and tried to touch him again, reaching for Bilbo’s hand.

“Bilbo, it’s us,” he said, giving him a warm smile. Horror lit up his eyes when he saw the long scar that ran across Bilbo’s cheek. “By the Valar, what happened—“

“Going back to the Shire happened,” he growled, shirking from the hand. “What, did you expect me to come through the journey back by myself unhurt?” The brothers shared a guilty look, and Kili clenched his hands into fists tightly.

“We’re so sorry, Bilbo,” Fili said softly. “We begged Uncle Thorin to let us escort you back to the Shire, but—he was mad with gold lust. Completely out of his mind. He wouldn’t listen to reason.” Bilbo let out a bark of laughter, startling them.

“Yes, I’m quite aware that he wouldn’t listen to reason,” he said bitterly. “You still didn’t answer my question, though. Why the bloody hell are you at my door after all this time?”

_And why didn’t you write me, even just to say that you were alive? Or to ask if I were alive? I still have night terrors, waking up with you and your brother lying dead on the battlefield, or with orcs ripping you to shreds…_

“Everything was so chaotic,” Kili entered the conversation, sounding hoarse and absolutely heartbroken. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “We didn’t have enough dwarves to send a party out to the Shire, and the roads were still infested with orcs…”

“But we’re here now,” Fili blurted. “To make things right. Thorin wants you to come back to Erebor—to be treated as the hero you should be have been as soon as the battle ended.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure he’s not going to change his mind and have me executed as soon as we have a conversation?” he asked with a bit more bite than he intended.

“ _Never_ ,” Kili choked out, sounding disgusted at the idea. “He’s back to normal now.”

“Not fully back, though,” Fili interrupted. “He’s—he’s not the same without you.” He lowered his voice, glancing over at where Dwalin and Ori were worriedly standing by the horses. “He misses you so much, Bilbo. He was completely devastated when he found out what he’d done. He wanted to come get you and apologize in person, but his advisors wouldn’t let him.”

Kili smiled shakily, attempting to lighten the mood. “Our mother was furious when she found out,” he chuckled. “Nearly lobbed off Thorin’s head. It took four guards and Dwalin to get her off ‘im.”

Fili’s face softened. “Mother is dying to meet you,” he added. “You’d love her: you two enjoy the same jokes and sweet things. Could have a tea party where all you did was complain and swap stories about Thorin.” After a few beats without even a hint of amusement from Bilbo, Kili and him grimaced.

“Please, please come back to Erebor,” Kili begged. “Everyone wants to see you terribly. They want to apologize—all of us.”

Bilbo jerked a hand across the back of his neck, letting out a harsh breath through his nose. “I have things to do here,” he said thickly. “Responsibilities. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most of Middle-Earth has orcs and goblins running about through it, and the hobbits are completely useless when it comes to defending themselves.”

“It doesn’t have to be a long stay,” Kili hastily said. “Just…just long enough for you to realize how sorry we are.” Bilbo didn’t answer.

“We know that it’s impossible to ever fully make up for how horrible we were to you, and for the things we made you go through,” Fili said guiltily. “But we’re going to make sure that nothing like that ever happens again. We swear it.”

Silence reigned between the three of them as the brothers waited for Bilbo to respond. The hobbit felt his heartbeat pick up and his whole body thrum with tension.

“I—I don’t—I need time. To think.”

“Of course!” Fili and Kili rushed to say.

“We’re going to be in the Shire for the next week or two,” Kili said, “at the inn. So when you’ve decided what you want to do…or if you want to talk…just come and find us.”

Bilbo swallowed and nodded. He could read it in Kili’s face that the younger brother was silently begging for Bilbo to let him into Bag End, but the hobbit couldn’t do that. Not yet. It was just too much to deal with.

So, with a cordial nod to the four dwarves, Bilbo closed the door and went to go pour himself a stiff drink, the memories of Kili’s broken face filling his muddled brain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting and then deleting this chapter really fast. Someone pointed out a few big mistakes I'd made, and I had to change them. I apologize--I didn't properly edit this chapter before posting it. 
> 
> I think it's all good now, but PLEASE point out any other mistakes I may have made (preferably in a nice manner). Finals have me exhausted, and it's hard for me to properly edit things.

It was decided that the group would leave with the dwarven delegates who were on their way to Mirkwood, a few weeks after the initial conversation with Gandalf. Preparations were made easily, and the true reason behind Thorin’s intentions to mend his and Bilbo’s relationship remained carefully guarded, as it was meant to.

They left Erebor early in the morning, when the sun’s first rays were just touching the ramparts. Thorin and Dís, along with the other members of Thorin’s Company, were there to give them a proper farewell, watching them until they had disappeared down the path. Dís fussed until the very end, making sure her boys were bundled up in their furs and armor, that their blades were sharpened, that their packs were full.

“I’m a grown dwarf, mother,” Fíli groaned, head tossed back as Dís tightened the straps on his armor.

“Yes, a grown dwarf who doesn’t know how to do a buckle up properly,” she retorted sharply, pinching his cheek as the others laughed.

It was a surprisingly easy journey, compared to the other times the company had traversed the roads. The permeating cold that was more of a nuisance than a threat—cold enough that it was uncomfortable and required furs, but didn’t bring the fear of losing toes.

The Woodland Realm was shockingly bright and much less spider-infested compared to the last time the company visited, and pleasantly lacked elven arrows aimed at them. Since their visit was anticipated, Prince Legolas and Tauriel met them on the path, courteous and welcoming. The delegates found it easy to return the warm sentiments, but the brothers and Dwalin had great difficulty to not let their prejudices show. Thorin and Balin had threatened bodily harm on all of them if they did anything that could jeopardize the peaceful mission.

Prince Legolas himself showed them to their rooms, ordering baths and foods to be prepared for them. Dwalin still watched the elf distrustfully, but the intensity of his glare lessened when a veritable feast was laid out for them. There was _meat_ and proper _bread,_ not just the thin, unsatisfying things the elves enjoyed, and green leafy things were nowhere to be found. Kíli and Ori could have wept with relief.

The party destined for the Shire only spent a single night, while the envoys remained to continue negotiating on trade agreements with King Thranduil. The elven king met with them before they left, to give Kíli and Fíli the proper greeting they deserved as royalty. The exchange was short and impersonal, but the dwarves expected nothing less. The tense atmosphere unsettled everyone, and it was shocking that no fights broke out.

The company left the Woodland Realm with full supply packs and rested ponies. Tauriel and Legolas escorted them to the edge of the forests, wraiths amongst the trees. Kíli had to scan the foliage before he saw a flash of silver and brown. Dwalin was obviously tense and uncomfortable, always scanning the area for elves or spiders. It wasn’t until they were a good few leagues away that the warrior allowed himself to relax, reverting back to his normal guarded and wary expression.

Beorn the Skinshifter allowed them to spend the night, if only because he was in high spirits, thanks to the disappearance of the last traces of orc from his land. He rumbled happily about a tribe of skinshifters he’d heard about in the Harad that were crossing into Gondor soon, and his plans to meet them. Ori and the others happily congratulated him, and filled him in on the various happenings of their kingdom and its regrowth.

The skinshifter, in his bear form, followed the company when they left. He kept his distance, as to not startle the ponies, and let out a ferocious roar when he decided to leave them to the rest of their journey, warning the wolves and other predators in the area to flee.

The Shire was covered in a thick blanket of snow when the party arrived. Not many hobbits were around, and those that were rushed past without sparing a glance.  Fíli attempted to stop one of these hobbits, to assure that they were headed in the right direction, but the hobbitess had given him a single frantic glance before hurrying on her way, leaving the dwarf confused and wary. The panicked atmosphere, added with the fact that there were Rangers patrolling the roads in the Shire, unnerved them all.

“Why are there so many Rangers?” Ori finally voiced the question that plagued their thoughts.

“Not sure,” Fíli grunted, brow furrowed as he watched yet another pair of towering men pass on their horses. He spurred his pony on down the path.

And when they reached Bag End, everything crumbled.

Kíli fought valiantly to hold back his tears, and the other three politely ignored it, their own grief clouding their thoughts. Ori did reach out a consoling hand, grasping his shoulder and whispering gentle words to him. Fíli had explained to Dwalin in a low voice what had happened, and the eldest dwarf was deeply saddened by Bilbo’s reaction, but reluctantly admitted he knew something like this would happen. The dwarves shouldn’t have expected a warm greeting when they had been so cruel to him before.

“We’ll need to find an inn soon,” Ori said worriedly, glancing at the sliver of sun that remained above the hills. “The rooms will fill up quickly, with all of these merchants around. And whatever these Men are here to hunt will no doubt be out.” The others agreed, and started down the path again.

***

Frodo groaned in frustration, seeing that the sun was already setting.

He had been running to the post office for Missus Gamgee, and ended up getting sidetracked by the fantastical wares that the merchants sold in the town. The colors were vibrant and the jewelry glowed, and by the time Frodo was able to tear himself away he was very much late. There was no way he would be able to make it back to her before night came and the wolves were out. He would have to flag down a Ranger to take him back, and Missus Gamgee and Uncle Bilbo would be even more furious.

Rushing down the already emptied road, Frodo studiously tried not to look at the Brandywine River, a thrill of fear already running up his spine at being in close proximity to it. He knew the monstrous fish that dwelled there wouldn’t be able to reach the road, but they could easily drag a full-grown hobbit if they were a few steps away.

Movement and voices drew his attention, though, from the exact area he was ignoring. Four ponies stood restlessly by the roadside, one of their riders creeping close to the water, talking to his companions in a gravelly tone. The language they spoke was foreign, something Frodo had never heard from a hobbit or Man.

Frodo hesitated, unsure if he should step in. Uncle Bilbo had warned him to always be careful with talking to strangers, especially ones with weapons. And he could clearly see these weapons, from the bow and quiver strapped to a shoulder and an axe peeking out from another’s cloak.

But as the person drew nearer to the riverbank, to where a monster could easily grasp him, Frodo blurted out, “You really shouldn’t get that close.”

All four of them whipped around, hands rising to their weapons. Frodo inhaled sharply, taking a cautionary step back. The golden-haired one was the first to relax, saying something to the others that made them release their weapons. They all seemed relieved to see it was a hobbitling, and not a threat.

“Any why is that, little one?” the golden one asked kindly, surprisingly in the Common Tongue.

“Because if one of the fish get you, you won’t be able to get out.” Frodo felt himself flush as the ones on ponies chuckled, sharing amused looks. The one who had been at the river’s edge, who had strange yet fascinating tattoos on his head, wasn’t laughing and stared at him hard.

“What do you mean by that, boy?” he growled, voice heavily accented.

Frodo didn’t respond, knowing that they wouldn’t believe him unless he had proof. Holding his breath and hoping his heart wouldn’t hammer out of his chest. He picked up a rock from the ground, brushing snow off of it. The travellers watched in curiosity as the young hobbit got as close as he dared to the river’s edge, and threw the rock with all of his might into the Brandywine.

They yelped and swore in surprise, blurting out a few curses in their strange language as the water foamed up, one of the monstrous fish mistaking the rock for a bird or frog and thrashing to get at it. When it realized nothing was there, it let out a reptilian hiss, diving back beneath the black waves, a fin momentarily sticking out of the water.

“Great Mahal,” the one with ginger hair breathed, face pale even in the darkness.

“Is that why there are all these Men and Rangers patrolling?” the black haired one asked, seemingly deeply disturbed.

“No, they’re here because of the Winter Wolves and orcs,” Frodo told them, seeing the shock on their faces. “They said they would help get rid of the fish in springtime, when the other things are gone.”

“You are very knowledgeable about these things, little one,” the ginger one replied, attempting to sound cheerful.

“Everyone in the Shire knows about the wolves,” Frodo shrugged. “They come every winter. My uncle helps the Rangers with getting rid of them.”

Frodo glanced nervously at the moon as it crept its way higher in the sky. He was acutely aware that the forest had gone deathly quiet, no rabbits rustling in the undergrowth or birds taking flight. If they weren’t out already, the wolves would be on the hunt soon.

“—home?”

Frodo blinked, realizing that he’d missed a question. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if you needed an escort home,” the dark-haired one asked. “It sounds dangerous for a hobbitling to be out alone.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to,” Frodo hurried to say, feeling like he should to put up a resistance. It would be rude to jump so quickly on an offer that could have just been an obligated offer that was insincere. “I’m just going to the inn, I can find a Ranger to take me.”

The ginger dwarf laughed. “That’s where we were headed, too.”

“Or at least _trying_ to,” the dark haired one joked. “We have no idea where we’re going. You wouldn’t mind showing us poor, lost travellers the way, would you?”

“Kíli, don’t push him,” the fair-haired dwarf admonished him, raising a playfully reproving eyebrow. “If the little’un doesn’t want to come with us, he doesn’t have to.”

“But we will take yeh to the nearest Man, so yeh don’t get snatched up,” the oldest dwarf cut in, drawing surprised looks from all of his companions. Hearing the gruff warrior say something that was kind to someone outside of his family was nearly unheard of.

Though it did make sense: dwarven children were still a treasured rarity in their community, drawing out protective feelings from almost all of the adult dwarves, which reached out towards any young being. Even Kíli and Fíli, who were still young and didn’t particularly care for children, felt that urge to defend children such as this little hobbitling.

Frodo only hesitated for a moment before deciding. “If it isn’t too much of a bother, I think I’d like to go with you,” he mumbled.

“It’s no bother at all,” the ginger dwarf laughed, scooting back on saddle. “Here, you can sit up here with me—there’s enough room.”

The hobbitling took a step towards him before burly arms lifted him up, drawing a cry of surprise. The tattood dwarf silently made sure he was seated securely before climbing onto his own pony. Frodo stuttered out a thank you, which earned a grunt and a softened expression that only lasted a moment.

“So, what is your name, little one?” the one he rode with asked.

“Frodo,” he answered. Out of habit, he left off his surname—almost all of the hobbits in the Shire knew who he was, and he figured that the visitors would have no need for it.

“Ori, brother of Dori, at your service,” he responded, bowing his head in greeting.

“Fíli, sons of Dís, at your service,” another broke in, grinning widely and bobbing his head. “The old grouch is Dwalin—“ the dwarf in question growled warningly—“and that’s my brother Kíli.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Frodo said politely. He idly wondered if the dwarves Uncle Bilbo went on his adventure with were like these ones.

Even though Uncle Bilbo would share his stories freely with his nephew and other hobbitlings, he refused to go into detail about what the dwarves were like or what their names were. When Frodo had asked about them, Uncle Bilbo’s eyes would go distant as he told Frodo that their names weren’t important, that all of their names would just get confusing for the younger children. Frodo didn’t believe him, but the pained look his uncle wore stopped him from pressing.

The dwarves chattered happily amongst each other, occasionally switching to Khuzdul to say something inappropriate. Frodo watched and listened eagerly, intrigued by such foreign mannerisms and words. Ori seemed to harbor similar feelings towards Frodo and hobbits, asking about life in the Shire, what they did for celebrations, and so on. Frodo answered the questions to the best of his ability, glad that the dwarf asked things that were easy to answer.

Unknown to the hobbitling, the brothers and Dwalin were continuously glancing over at him, fascinated by him.

“ _He’s so small_ ,” Kíli whispered in awe to his brother, using their native tongue. He’d never seen such a small, delicate little creature in his how existence. When he had arrived at the Shire the first time, to reclaim Erebor, he’d been so focused on reaching their destination that he’d easily looked over the hobbitlings. The thoughts of Bilbo’s rejection slid to the edges of his mind in the face of a tiny, intelligent child.

The inn Missus Gamgee worked at and owned was homely and warm, much like her. The rooms were cheap and clean, and a good majority of them were for Tallfolk, making it popular with the merchants. In the wintertime, it was always bustling, the merchants always needing a place for ale and comfortable beds. The building was on the edge of the market, and all of the windows glowed brightly, illuminating the festive scenes inside.

A shivering stableman rushed up as the dwarves dismounted, taking the ponies and leading them to the stables, accepting a few copper coins as payment.

Inside the inn was hot and boisterous, Men getting drunk after a long day’s work and maids ladened with pints expertly weaving through the crowds. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, and candles were lit on the walls to keep everything alight.

A bell rang when Dwalin pushed the door open, alerting the innkeeper of a new customer. Missus Gamgee flew to the counter, face flushed with exertion but a cheery grin on it, her matronly dress flowing around her.

“Good evening, master dwarves,” she greeted them. “Five beds, dwarf-sized? We have a few rooms availa— _Frodo!”_

Her voice reached a screeching level at the sight of the young hobbit, making the dwarves and a few patrons wince. “By the Valar, boy, where were you? I was about to send out the Rangers for yeh! Don’t frighten me so, m’ old heart can’t take these scares anymore!”

“Sorry, Missus Gamgee,” Frodo said meekly, shuffling his bare feet on the floor, handing her the extra coins from paying for messengers.

“It’s our fault, dear lady,” Fíli broke in, taking a step forward and smiling charmingly. Mrs. Gamgee looked up at him, taken aback. “Me and my companions were hopelessly lost, and this little one agreed to help us find our way to the nearest inn. I apologize for putting him in danger; it was never our intention. We weren’t aware of the wolves, until he told us about them.”

Mrs. Gamgee’s face softened, her hand smoothing through Frodo’s ringlets of hair. “Aye, not many do know about the winter wolves. The Shire’s too much of an isolated place for it t’be common knowledge. You have nothing to apologize for, master dwarf. I should be thankin’ yeh for watching little Frodo and makin’ sure he didn’t get himself into any trouble.”

“It was no trouble, madam hobbit,” Kíli joined in, bowing slightly. “We are at your service.”

Mrs. Gamgee tittered, waving one of her serving girls over. “Tillya, go clean up the hobbit-sized room and set the room for four, there’s a dear.” She turned and accepted the coin offered to her by Ori. “Until your rooms are ready, you’re welcome to some hot stew and ale. Just sit anywhere, dears, one of my ladies will bring you food. Frodo, go into the kitchen and get yourself some, too, before yer uncle comes.” Frodo nodded, peeking up at the dwarves.

Ori smiled down at the boy. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Frodo.”

“We’ll be in Hobbiton for the next couple of days,” Kíli remarked, crouching slightly. “We might run into each other.” He winked broadly at the young hobbit, who gave him a shy grin.

The hot stew and cool ale was a welcomed luxury to the dwarves, after travelling and having the disastrous meeting with Bilbo. They talked in low voices about what they were going to do, how they were going to fix their relations with the hobbit. And more importantly, Fíli and Kíli thought silently, how they were going to get their burglar back to Erebor to talk to Thorin.

While they discussed their options in Khuzdul, Frodo sat near the kitchen, eating a bowl of stew. The chef had slipped him some sweetcakes, winking broadly at the hobbitling and whispering loudly not to tell Mrs. Gamgee. The young hobbit gave him a smile and thanked him profusely before going back to his table, hiding the treats from the missus’ sight while he nibbled on them.

“ _We just need_ time,” Ori stressed. “ _Time to talk to Master Baggins, to regain his trust._ ”

“ _But how long will it take_?” Fíli argued. “ _This Bilbo is so different than the one we know. For all we know, the Bilbo we know could never come back. Then what?”_

_“Then we return to Erebor,”_ Dwalin rumbled. “ _I doubt Thorin will give up so easily. Maybe if we get sent back he’ll get off his lazy arse and come here himself.”_ That startled a laugh out of Ori, but the morose atmosphere soon returned.

Fíli sighed, running a hand over his ragged face and tugging at his beard. “ _We’ll go back tomorrow, after breakfast,”_ he decided. “ _We’ll try to speak with him again, and if that doesn’t work, then we shall return later. I think_ —“

The heavy doors swung open, bringing with it a gust of freezing air, snowflakes and cloaked figure. He was dressed in the most peculiar clothing the dwarves had ever seen a hobbit wear (which his feet easily identified him as). It was _armor,_ something that the warriors and scribe never expected to see on a peace-loving hobbit. Especially some that was as fine as this: thin, carefully crafted, darkened to blend with his cloak and the shadows. The blade was sheathed in a fine casing—one that was decorated with Elvish designs, matching the pommel of the blade that had been seared into the company’s memories.

Bilbo shed the hood of his cloak, running his fingers through his messy hair to rid it of the pesky snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments/kudos much appreciated.
> 
> If you have any questions or something for me to write, send me an ask: darkmoonmaiden.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading~~ ^_^


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